


Quite the Pair

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 17,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Thommy one shots from Tumblr. Mostly fluff, not chronological, and not necessarily connected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darling

**Author's Note:**

> A guest with an unfortunate name leads to an awkward moment downstairs.

**Darling**

“So, you’re Lord Darling’s valet?” asked Mr Molesley with polite interest, as the various servants attached to the visiting parties scurried about, making sure that everyone and everything was where it was meant to be.

“Yes,” the man smiled sheepishly and took off his hat, “though I’d rather go by my own name if I’m honest, when visiting other households.”

“Oh?” said Molesley, always one for keeping up proud tradition, “why’s that then?”

The other man sighed. “I expect you’ll see soon enough.”

Mr Carson marched into the servants’ hall, scattering errant hall boys in his wake, and chivvying visiting lady’s maids to the correct rooms. “Ah, there you are, Darling,” he said to Lord Darling’s valet, realising a second too late the connotations of the man’s name. “That is, _Mr_ Darling,” he corrected himself amid the giggles of the maids who’d overheard. 

“Yes, Mr Carson,” said the valet, looking unamused and thoroughly fed up with the joke. 

“Ah,” said Mr Molesley, “I think I see what you mean.”

Mr Darling just smiled weakly and went to unpack his Lordship’s clothes.

*

At least five similar instances occurred over the rest of the chaotic morning and afternoon, met each time with a grimace from Lord Darling’s valet, and stifled laughter from everyone else.  
That evening at the servants’ dinner, Anna was running late as she’d had to attend to two other visiting ladies who hadn’t brought maids, and Mr Darling had taken her usual seat between Mr Barrow and Jimmy. 

“So you’ve really been to India, Mr Darling?” Jimmy asked him through a mouthful of potato, ever keen for any scrap of information he could get about far off places and glittering parties. 

“Yes, I have,” the valet said, clearly glad to be discussing something other than his name, “let’s see… it was three years ago now.”

“We had a lady’s maid who moved there,” Daisy added helpfully as she brought in another plate of bread.

“Yes,” Mr Carson said darkly, “and the less said about that, the better, I think. I shouldn’t want anyone else to get the same idea.”

“Oh come now, Mr Carson,” said Mrs Hughes gently, “I don’t think there’s any harm in us hearing about Mr Darling’s travels.”

“Mmm well,” the butler grumbled but said no more on the matter. 

The talk carried on, concerning nothing much in particular, until a simple request from Mr Barrow produced an unexpected result. 

“Could you pass the bread, Darling?” he said to the valet. The man nodded and reached for the plate, but found someone else had beaten him to it. 

Barely looking up from his own plate, Jimmy had grabbed the bread and held it out to Mr Barrow. “Here you go, love.” 

He didn’t realise his mistake for a moment or two. When no one took the plate from him, he looked up to see Mr Barrow and the visiting valet staring at him in bewilderment. “What?” It was then he noticed the five or six others sitting close by were gaping at him too. Mr Bates looked like he was trying to hold back laughter. “What’s the matter? I – oh.” His unfortunate slip of the tongue finally caught up with him, and his cheeks went pink.

Mr Carson chose that moment to notice the lull in the conversation in the middle section of the table. “Is there something the matter?” He looked to the under butler, “Mr Barrow?”

“Nothing, Mr Carson,” Thomas answered with a careful smile, finally taking the plate from where Jimmy still held it out to him. 

The butler narrowed his eyes, but was prevented from saying anything else as Anna and another maid finally came down for dinner, talking animatedly about some argument brewing between two of the ladies upstairs. This was sufficient enough to distract everyone for the time being, but Jimmy didn’t miss the way the hall boys scrutinised him as he handed Mr Barrow his evening cup of tea, or the way Anna and Mr Bates smiled knowingly as he bid everyone goodnight.  
But it didn’t seem to matter quite so much when he pushed open the door to Mr Barrow’s room in the middle of the night, slipped under the covers, and kissed his forehead.

“Hello, darling.”


	2. Bathwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jimmy has a very uncomfortable bath.

**Bathwater**

_But I still love to wash in your old bathwater_  
 _Love to think that you couldn't love another_  
 _I can't help it...you're my kind of man._

_Bathwater, No Doubt._

~

Jimmy eyed the bath full of warm water with distaste. Under normal circumstances, he very much enjoyed a nice hot bath – his mother used to have to drag him from the tub when he was a boy, so much did he like a good long soak. It felt decadent almost; to wile away time he didn’t really have submerged in hot, fragrant waters, and Jimmy had always been one for luxuries, when he could get them. But this time, the warm, clear water and bar of soap held little appeal. After glaring at the water for a good two minutes, as though it could change anything, Jimmy groaned in defeat and started to strip off. 

The only problem with so called ‘modern conveniences,’ was that one could easily come to rely on them too heavily, meaning that if they were to break, you were at a complete loss as to how to function without them. Apparently, one of the main water pipes in the village had burst, leaving them and the Abbey without water while it was fixed. Unfortunately, it was a slow process, and the residents of Downton had been getting by drawing water from an old well at the back of the house. It was safe to drink if boiled first, and more of an inconvenience than anything else. The real problem concerned hygiene.  
It had been a considerable amount of time now since any members of staff had had a proper wash, not counting a quick splash of cold water in the mornings. Mr Carson, determined as ever not to let the standard of the house slip, had insisted everyone take a bath to tide them over a while longer. This meant a laborious process of heating water over the stove in kettles to fill the tub. It was a task that no one really had the time to be doing, so they had been instructed to reuse the hot bathwater two or three times over before filling it anew. Naturally, the lower down the employment ladder you were, the more people were likely to have use of the water before you. And Jimmy was painfully aware of who had bathed themselves in this very water only minutes previously.

It wasn’t that he considered Mr Barrow unclean or anything like that, it just seemed so terribly _intimate,_ like you were family or something. He didn’t think he’d feel so strongly if it were say Alfred, or one of the hall boys he were going in after; though he would have bristled at them getting to use the water before him.  
He dipped a toe into the water, and, when nothing catastrophic happened, sighed in frustration at himself for getting so damn worked up over nothing, and lowered himself the rest of the way in. He cringed as the water met his body, and settled himself in the bath. The water was still rather warm, which Jimmy found troubling. Were it hotter or colder, it would have felt more cleansing; but as it was, it’s gentle warmth reminded him of human proximity, a lingering touch, the weight of another body over his own… No. Quickly, he dunked his head under the water to derail that particular train of thought. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Now he was uncomfortably aware that the water Mr Barrow had bathed in was all over his face, in his hair, and between his lips. He sat up, coughing slightly and wiping water from his eyes. Keen for another distraction, Jimmy grabbed the soap from the edge of the tub, working it furiously over his hands to make a lather. He’d scrubbed at his face and neck, and was just starting to soap his arms and chest (he may as well do things properly – who knew when he’d next get the chance?) when a mortifying thought occurred to him. Mr Barrow would have used this soap too. His long fingers would have gripped the soap just as Jimmy did now, working it through his dark hair, soapy water trailing down his back. Jimmy wondered absently if Thomas smoked while in the bath; it seemed like the sort of thing he’d do – settled back against the rim of the bath, eyes closed, cigarette held loosely between his fingers and leaving ash on the floorboards, skin slick with water… No, Mr Barrow was too meticulous for that, too much of a perfectionist. He’d bathe carefully and precisely, paying every inch of his body the necessary attention. He’d ease any dirt from under his fingernails, rub soap over his chest and under his arms, clever fingers kneading tension from his thighs, and then his – 

“Jimmy?” Alfred’s voice came through the door, loud and blunt and utterly unwelcome, “what the heck are you doing in there? It’s about my turn now, I reckon.”

“Alright! Give me a minute!” he bellowed in return. Sodding Alfred… Jimmy rushed through the rest of his wash, feeling guilty and confused as to why. The water was suddenly too hot and uncomfortable on his skin. He tried to ignore the ache of arousal in his belly as he dried himself, though it only worsened when he rubbed the towel over his thighs and between his legs. 

“Jimmy, come on! I’m dying for a bath.”

“Keep your hair on! I’m coming.” Jimmy threw his clothes back on as quickly as he could before wrenching the door open, giving Alfred his best glare. 

“About time. You were – “

“Oh, shut up,” Jimmy shoved him out of the way and hurried back to the privacy of his bedroom, not sure if he blamed himself, or Mr Barrow, or the ruddy burst water pipe for his current state.


	3. Sea Shells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble set at the beach during the s4 Christmas special, which I think we can all agree would have benefited from more interaction between Thomas and Jimmy.

**Sea Shells**

“Did you know, if you hold a sea shell up to your ear, you can hear the ocean?”

Jimmy blinked at him, sceptical and unimpressed. “I’m not five years old, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas snorted. “Could have fooled me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jimmy retorted weakly, bending to pluck another shell from the wet sand. It was only a mussel shell, half dull white and half sleek black, and just like the dozen or so others they’d spotted so far. He tossed it back into the sea. 

They were standing right at the water’s edge, trousers stubbornly rolled up as far as they would go (which turned out to be not very far at all) and pinching their lower legs. Every so often, a sleepy wave would roll up onto the shore, cold water tumbling over their feet and making them wince. The others had declined to go down to the water at all, and had stayed farther up where the sand was warmer and dry, kicking a ball about or taking a walk, hands sticky with ice cream and hair blown about by the salty air. 

“Here, look at this one,” Jimmy’s voice, roughened by the dry air and the excess of cigarettes he’d been smoking of late (the number had increased somewhat since they’d parted for the summer, Thomas had noticed) pulled him back to himself.

“What is it?” he asked as Jimmy washed off as much of the sand as he could in the chilly water. 

“I don’t know.” Jimmy held the shell up for their inspection. It was an ugly thing; craggy and spiked, porous and pitted and flecked with blacks and browns, a long slit underneath giving a glimpse of the smoother and marginally more attractive inside.

“It’s bloody ugly,” said Thomas finally.

Jimmy laughed, still scrutinising it, “yes, it is rather.”

“Then toss it back where it came from and we’ll go back up the beach. I can’t feel my toes anymore, it’s so damn cold.”

“Mm,” Jimmy stayed where he was, turning the shell over in his hands. A few grains of sand had somehow ended up in his eyebrow. He wouldn’t like that. 

“Hold it up to your ear.”

“Not that rubbish again.”

“Just humour me.”

“Oh, _fine.”_ With an overly dramatic sigh, Jimmy gave in and lifted the shell up to his ear, listening. After a moment or two, he smiled, and looked up at Thomas as though surprised to find he’d been telling the truth. “How did you know?”

Thomas shrugged, “just something me mum used to say.” The idea had enchanted him as a child, though had been largely forgotten until now, as he watched Jimmy carefully scooping up sea shells from the foam. “Now just chuck the bloody thing, would you? I want to go and get dried off.”

“Alright, alright,” Jimmy followed him out of the water, sand flicking up and clinging to the wet skin of their legs.

It wasn’t until a month or so later, when the family and servants were all safely back at Downton for the winter, when Thomas was up late one night playing cards with Jimmy in the footman’s bedroom, that he noticed the craggy shell sitting amongst the mess of things on Jimmy’s dresser.


	4. Flutter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy and Thomas go to the races.
> 
> There are mentions of horse injury/death, just in case that bothers anybody.

**Flutter**

Jimmy liked a flutter on the horses every now and then, it was no secret. Thomas did not. He’d learnt the hard way that taking a gamble could come back and get you in the neck. As a result of his cautious attitude, he was currently bored as heck, and almost frozen to his seat with the cold, watching dozens of horses that all looked the same cross the finish line to the cheers and screams of desperate men. He held the remains of a cigarette in numb fingers as Jimmy stood right at the front, amid the baying punters. The things he did for love. Not that Jimmy would see it like that – as far as he was concerned, Thomas was just a mate to spend an afternoon at the races with.

At long last, and not a moment too soon as far as Thomas was concerned, it was the final race of the day. He was already dreaming of hot tea and a hotter bath when the runners took their places at the start. When they set off he barely flinched, so accustomed he’d grown to the roar that came from the crowd each time the horses surged forward. He was hardly even watching anymore; instead noticing a nasty scuff on his glove and planning the best way to remove it, as the thundering mockery of a cavalry took on the last fence. A particularly loud bellow from the crowd, Jimmy’s voice among them, made him look up. 

The race was over, horses slowing to a trot after the finish post and jockeys commiserating each other and congratulating the winner. But this was not what had caused the groan of despair. One horse, the favourite to win in fact, hadn’t cleared the final hurdle. It had fallen at the last, and lay sprawled and struggling to get to its feet, covered in mud and sweat and eyes wide with panic. Thomas knew what was coming next, and he didn’t wish to be around to witness it. He got to his feet, shaken by how much the incident had affected him, with the intention of finding Jimmy as quickly as possible and getting the heck out. He didn’t have to search long – Jimmy was marching towards him, scowl on his face and now useless betting slip scrunched up in his hand.

“Bloody waste of time and money, that were,” he said when he reached Thomas, “I had five bob on that bloody useless horse.”

Thomas didn’t trust himself to reply. He simply nodded stiffly and made his way towards the exit. Jimmy wittered on about the money he’d lost and the apparently good odds of the unfortunate horse most of the way home, until Thomas couldn’t bear to listen to it anymore.

“Jimmy, would you please be quiet about your sodding money,” he hissed, with more anger than he’d meant to.

Jimmy stopped abruptly and frowned at him, before shrugging it off in that infuriating sulky manner of his. “Alright.” 

“Thank you,” Thomas said quietly, and reached for a cigarette from his pocket to give him something to do. He was surprised at himself, by how unexpectedly pained he was by the death of some random racehorse who’d fallen at the last. It was just an animal, and one he’d never even seen before at that. So why did it bother him so? He knew it was irrational, but that was no help.

“Thomas,” said Jimmy hesitantly, looking vaguely uncomfortable. He had a tendency to look that way whenever he had to deal with other people’s upsets, “are… are you alright?” 

“That’s Mr Barrow to you,” he mumbled around his cigarette, but with less vigour than he usually would. 

Jimmy snorted, but tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. “It were only a horse, Thomas, a dumb animal. It doesn’t mean anything, not in the big picture.”

“I know that,” Thomas bit, angry at Jimmy for noticing, and angry at himself for being so obviously troubled. Jimmy removed his hand from where it rested, and the feeling of loss was instant. “Sorry. I know it’s only a horse, but…” he grimaced and shook his head, “it just bothered me is all. No doubt I’ll get over it.” It seemed obvious and cliché and he hated himself for thinking it, but he suspected it might have had something to do with the war. The way the poor beast lay screaming and flailing, unable to stand as if pulled down by invisible wires and mud… But more than that it was a reminder of the terribly pointless waste of life. Or maybe he was just going soft, who knew. 

“Oh.”

Thomas chanced a quick look at Jimmy’s face, only to see him smiling slightly, which both confused and irritated him further. “What are you smiling about?” 

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve seen a side of you I didn’t know existed, Mr Barrow.”


	5. Porridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt concerning Jimmy popping a boner while watching Thomas eat breakfast. This is decidedly more tame than that I'm afraid, but the general principle is the same.
> 
> One of the first little things I wrote about these two bastards. Aww :)

**Porridge**

Looking back on all those months Jimmy had spent being a bit of a bastard to Thomas, he wasn’t sure how he’d survived it. He must have been bored as hell – the under butler was the only person at Downton he spent any real time with. They were friends now, and he was glad of it, simple as that.  
He pulled the crust off the slice of toast on his plate, unbidden smile on his face as he watched Thomas finish off a bowl of porridge. Actually, come to think of it he’d found his attention caught by Thomas’ mouth quite a lot of late. When he was smoking, for example, or even just talking, and licking a stamp was one he’d found particularly pleasing, though he couldn’t say why. There was that funny little pout he did when someone really got on his nerves. And of course, eating.

Thomas had somehow managed to leave a tiny smear of porridge just under his bottom lip, strange for someone so meticulous and neat as he. Jimmy had the sudden urge to kiss it away, which was puzzling, because he didn’t even like the stuff. Unthinkingly, and attention still fixed on Thomas’ lips, he reached over and wiped the smudge away with his thumb.  
Thomas froze and turned to look at him, lovely mouth slack with surprise. Those sitting close enough to have witnessed it stopped talking, and stared at him too. There was one hideous, humiliating moment as the awkwardness of Jimmy’s action dawned on him. 

Bugger. 

He stood up fast enough for his chair to clatter to the floor, and excused himself as quickly as he could, before anyone could notice the heat of embarrassment flaring on his face. 

*

That evening, Jimmy was pulling on his gloves ready to serve the family dinner. The rest of the day hadn’t been as mortifying as he’d expected after his stupidity at breakfast. Of course he’d avoided Thomas like the plague, and he’d got the odd funny look from a hall boy or two, but on the whole, he was alright. That is, until Thomas found him.

“Jimmy?”

“Thomas!” He almost dropped his glove, “Mr Barrow, that is. W–what can I do for you?” He tried to smile. Thomas ignored it.

“What the bloody hell were you playing at at breakfast?”

Jimmy shrugged and tried to look unconcerned. “I don’t know,” he said gruffly, for once praying that Alfred would blunder in and save him the trouble of facing up to the entire situation, “I weren’t thinking.”

Thomas looked at him with that funny little half smile that cropped up so often when the two of them were chatting. Jimmy could never tell what he was thinking when he smiled like that. He was still trying to figure it out when Thomas ducked down to press their lips together. It was brief and soft, and Thomas was gone again, though Jimmy had somehow found the time to curl his fingers around Thomas’ upper arm. He swallowed, their faces still closer together than was decent. 

“What were that for?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas said as he eased Jimmy’s grip on his arm and made his way back towards the kitchen, “I weren’t thinking.”


	6. April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During a walk through the gardens, Jimmy realises he doesn't feel quite the same about Thomas as he used to.

**April**

 

“I never much cared for it.”

“For what?”

“Going outdoors.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not all that much fun really, is it? I’d rather be indoors, me. A drink in me hand and a girl in a nice dress on me arm, and something new playing to have a bit of a dance to. You can’t dance as well on grass as you can on good, solid floorboards, and even you can’t argue with that.”

“Are you honestly telling me you’d rather be inside, on a day like this, in a dark room that smells like alcohol and furniture polish and too much perfume, bowing and scraping most likely, when you could be out here?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you say the same? I can’t imagine you’ve spent much time lounging about in gardens either.”

“You’re right enough about that, I suppose. But just because I don’t get the chance often, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it when I do.”

“Well, you’ve got your way – here we are. Though I still don’t see what’s so wonderful about it. It’s only a garden.”

_Sparrows are twittering and hopping about in the hedgerows, the light, careful trickling of water in an ornamental fountain, where fat, orange fish drift in dark water, edges of lily pads curling up and knocking together, making ripples on the surface. The rushing buzz of a bumblebee whizzing past before it’s gone again, humming lazily around bright petals. A stray breeze makes white garlic bells bob and sway and knock heads, and decorative grasses brush against each other and tangle. It carries the scent of the squashed grass under their feet and the sweet scent of early flowers. A bed of tulips is bright amid the endless lawns, their pinks and reds and purples waxy and flawless – they’ll never again look right in a vase, now he’s seen them in the ground._   
_Their hands knock as they walk, and he takes care to move away. They come to a stop under a large tree he doesn’t know the name of, by an artfully arranged tumbling of rocks with tiny flowers peeking out from the gaps._

_Jimmy had never thought of Thomas as a creature of the outdoors – he was too well-groomed and starched, too clean-cut and careful for things like trees and water and earth underfoot. He had always been pale too, and cold and angular, like he was cut from stone, a thing sculpted rather than grown. But now Jimmy is close enough to see the string of freckles scattered across his nose, a lock of hair come loose over his forehead, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the mottled grey of his eyes like rocks under a stream, the warmth of his body scant inches away, and Jimmy thinks of him – for the first time – as a person. Or maybe even more than just a person, as in general he doesn’t much care for people. His perception of Thomas has shifted – it’s been coming on slowly for some time, but it has taken until this moment to change entirely – and he is no longer just Mr Barrow, his sort-of friend, sort-of superior, but Thomas, a person of importance to him. A presence Jimmy could not do without and would not be parted from._

“Thomas?”

“Yes? And that’s Mr Barrow, to you.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh? And why might that be?”

“You used to be Mr Barrow. That is, when we’re serving dinner or doing inventories and things like that; and you still must be, I suppose. 

“… Are you feeling alright?”

“You were Mr Barrow yesterday, when I thought we could only ever be friends at best, and share cigarettes – “

“If by ‘share’ you mean steal mine.”

“ – and play cards and tease the others, that sort of thing. But I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

“Oh. Look Jimmy, I’m sorry you – “ 

“No, listen. I can’t be your friend anymore, because you’re a different person to me entirely than you used to be. You’re Thomas.”

“Jimmy, I’m afraid I really don’t – “

“Oh bugger it, I’m not explaining it very well.”

“You’ve got that right. Maybe we should just go back indoors.”

“Thomas?”

“What now?”

“Can I kiss you?”


	7. Valentines 1: Jimmy's Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy stuff for Valentines Day. Part one: Jimmy's gift to Thomas.

**Valentines 1: Jimmy's Gift**

 

Thomas scowled as he hauled himself out of bed to open his bedroom door, wincing as the chill of a February morning ( _very early_ morning) met his skin. The amount of sleep he was getting each night had certainly taken a hit since he’d taken up with Jimmy, and being woken earlier than absolutely necessary was not something he took kindly to. 

“Hurry up!” Jimmy’s muffled hiss came from the other side of the door. 

“Alright,” mumbled Thomas, more to himself, as he pulled the door open. “What the bloody hell do you want?” he rubbed at his tired eyes as Jimmy darted into his bedroom, “it’s barely five o’clock. And if you think I’m just going to – oh.” He turned to see Jimmy balancing a heavily loaded breakfast tray, and looking decidedly awkward. “What’s this?”

“I umm,” Jimmy cleared his throat, and even in the dull light of his bedside lamp, Thomas could see his cheeks were flushed, “I wanted to do something for you… for Valentine’s day, that is. It’s breakfast in bed.”

“But I’m not in bed,” said Thomas thickly, though that wasn’t what he’d planned to say at all.

Jimmy rolled his eyes, “well I can see that. You’d best get back in then, hadn’t you.”

“Cheeky,” Thomas said, but climbed back under the covers anyway, leaning against the headboard. Jimmy followed, straddling Thomas’ legs to face him, tray on the bed between them. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“I know that,” said Jimmy indignantly, “I wanted to.”

“It were very sweet of you, Jimmy,” he said sincerely, a little overcome with just how lovely Jimmy could be when he set his mind to it. Sometimes Thomas wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve it. “Thank you,” he looked over the contents of the tray, “did you do this yourself?”

“Of course I did,” said Jimmy hotly, “or did you think I just woke Mrs Patmore and Daisy extra early so they could make a romantic breakfast for the man I’m having it off with?” 

“No need to be rude,” said Thomas, as he tried to decide whether he fancied marmalade or jam, “I didn’t know you knew how, is all.”

Jimmy bit his lip, “I… might’ve gotten up early a couple of times to watch Ivy and Daisy sort the servants’ breakfast.”

“You soppy bugger you,” said Thomas, smiling so wide it felt unnatural, pride be damned.

“It’s only a bit of toast,” said Jimmy gruffly, but looked pleased with himself all the same.

“Well, I can honestly say it’s one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had.”

“Only ‘one of?’”

“Well,” said Thomas, mock seriously, “there’s always room for improvement, James.”

Jimmy bristled at Thomas’ teasing; they were both very good at pushing each other’s buttons, for better or for worse. “I’m only sorry it had to be so early,” said Jimmy, apparently ignoring him and instead biting back a yawn, “but I had to be out of the kitchen before everyone woke up.”

“I know,” Thomas put his hand on Jimmy’s knee and bit into a slice of (only slightly burnt) toast.

“If I had my way,” Jimmy began, lacing his fingers with Thomas’ on his knee, “we’d have woken up to the sunlight of a reasonable hour, in a bed so big, it would make his Lordship jealous.”

“A nice thought,” Thomas said as Jimmy lifted his hand to his lips. “Go on.”

“And we’d have servants of our own to bring us breakfast in bed,” he kissed Thomas’ knuckles and along his wrist, “and I’d feed you fruit and pastries, and we’d drink wine, because there’d be no one to tell us not to.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Thomas, throat dry with the thought of things that would never happen.

“Mmm,” Jimmy shifted closer, the tray digging into Thomas’ stomach, “and I haven’t even got to the best bit yet.”

“Oh?” Thomas leant forward almost without meaning to, gravitating towards Jimmy, always, “enlighten me.”

“I kiss you,” he said simply, voice low, “I want to kiss you so bloody much, that I knock the breakfast things to the floor – “

“As long as you don’t do that here. It’s us who’ll have to pick it up, not imaginary servants.”

“ – and so I do just that,” he carried on as though Thomas hadn’t interrupted. They did kiss then, light and awkward, the breakfast tray between them preventing them getting any closer. Thomas reluctantly broke the kiss so he could move the blasted tray, but Jimmy stopped him with a hand on his arm and a smirk on his face.

“Jimmy?”

“Now now, Mr Barrow,” he said, lips curling in that half-pout half-smile that Thomas found both infuriating and delicious, “don’t go getting distracted. I’ve made you breakfast, and you should eat it. Who knows when I’ll do it again.”

Thomas stared at him incredulously for a moment, before rolling his eyes and resigning himself to his fate, snatching up a slice of the temporarily abandoned toast and slumping back against the headboard. “If you say so, mother.”

Jimmy glared at him, “I do say so.” He cast a glance at the alarm clock on Thomas’ bedside table, expression softening to something more telling, “ I should get back to me room,” he said regretfully.

Thomas swallowed, food sticking in his throat, “you should.” Jimmy stood, face sour, though his mood seemed to lift a bit when Thomas held out a hand to him. “See you downstairs,” he said, as Jimmy took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“See you later,” Jimmy echoed, bending to press a teasing a kiss to the corner of Thomas’ mouth that he’d surely be thinking about for the rest of the day, “my valentine,” he said softly in Thomas’ ear as he straightened up. He turned to go to his own room without looking back, leaving Thomas with a half-eaten breakfast, and a sincere wish for the day to pass as swiftly as possible, so he could get back at his lover for leaving him in such a state.


	8. Valentines 2: Thomas' Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah that's right, I posted two this week; I didn't want to split up the two Valentines Day ones too much. So this is the second part of the ridiculous fluff (it's sickeningly fluffy, almost to the point of being OOC.)   
> Also, I'm assuming you couldn't pre-purchase cinema tickets back in the day, but I've elected to ignore this for the sake of whimsy.

**Valentines 2: Thomas' Gift**

 

There was an infuriating and insecure, and somewhat unexpected, part of Jimmy that honestly thought Thomas wouldn’t be waiting for him. That at any given moment, Thomas would pull back with a sneer, laugh at him and call him pathetic for loving him so easily, despite everything. That Thomas would repeat all the endearments they’d whispered to each other in the darkness of night that were never meant for anyone else’s ears; but in a cold and mocking way to a sea of faceless onlookers, who in turn jeered and shouted and claimed he wasn’t a real man. These were the thoughts that niggled at him on the darkest of nights, when he was in that daunting place between sleep and waking. Of course he knew he was being stupid, but that didn’t mean he could stop thinking it.   
Fortunately, he could push all of that out of his mind for the time being, because Thomas was indeed waiting for him in the courtyard out back after dinner, cigarette in hand and daft smile on his face that Jimmy alone seemed to be able to evoke. And just like that, simple as you like, nothing else seemed to matter for the moment. 

“Hello,” Thomas greeted him, somehow managing to wear even that soppy smile with some sort of elegance, damn him, “I were starting to think you’d stood me up.”

Jimmy snorted. “Is it likely?” He itched to give him a kiss, just on the corner of his mouth, to taste his lip and the ever present trace of cigarette smoke. But they were still too close to the house and easily visible in the glow of the servants’ hall window. “Besides, you still owe me a present.”

“You know,” Thomas said, in his best imitation of Mr Carson, “Valentine’s day isn’t all about gifts, James.”

“Oh really?” said Jimmy in mock ignorance, “then what is it all about, Mr Barrow?”

“Love.”

Jimmy looked at him for a long moment, fairly certain he was matching Thomas’ daft, soppy expression on his own face, before shaking himself out of it. “Nah, nice try. Where’s my present?” 

Thomas tutted at him, reaching into his jacket pocket, “did anyone ever tell you that you’re an impatient little swine?”

“Yes, my father made a point to tell me at least twice a day when I were growing up, now give it to me.”

“You’ll get nothing if you’re not a good boy,” Thomas said, low enough that Jimmy wasn’t sure he’d heard him right or of it was just wishful thinking. He withdrew his hand from his pocket, handing Jimmy an envelope. “Here.”

“What is it?”

Thomas looked at him as though he were an idiot, something he did far too often for Jimmy’s liking. “I don’t know Jimmy, why don’t you open it and find out?”

“Alright, keep your knickers on,” Jimmy muttered, earning himself a light smack on the arm, as he picked open the envelope. He pulled out the slips of paper inside, knowing at once what they were. “Tickets for the pictures!” 

“It seemed an appropriate Valentine’s day activity.” Thomas stubbed out his cigarette on the wall.

“Are they for tonight?” Jimmy asked, scanning the tickets for details.

“Of course they are,” Thomas said, “they wouldn’t be much good if they were for yesterday, would they?”

“Oh, shut up,” said Jimmy, not able to smother his smile. Everyone knew how much Jimmy loved the pictures; he was well aware that he spoke about actors and actresses and Hollywood far more often than was welcome, but the fact that Thomas had noticed and listened and acted on it was more than anyone had done for him before.

“We’d better get going,” Thomas checked his watch, “or we’ll miss the last bus in. We might have to walk back as it is.”

“I don’t care,” said Jimmy, wanting to hug him and very much annoyed that he couldn’t do so. Annoyed that no one else could ever know how wonderful he was, under his veneer of indifference and barbed comments. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now come on, or we’ll be late.”

*

After watching the film (and not paying as much attention as he should have done, because he was too busy glancing with fascination at the way the flickering light lit up Thomas’ face, parts in brilliant white and some in deepest shadow) they were making their way back up to the house, walking hand in hand in the darkness, because there was nobody there to see. Funny, he never would have pegged Thomas as the type for hand holding. Maybe he was only doing it for him. He wasn’t sure if that was flattering or embarrassing.

“Do you know,” Jimmy said, looking up at the sky as he walked and trusting Thomas to lead him right, “everyone back at the house thought I were taking a girl out tonight.”

“Mm. Not really a surprise, seeing as it’s Valentine’s day and you’re the most unsubtle flirt I’ve ever met.” Jimmy bumped him gently with his shoulder. “And it’s probably for the best.”

Jimmy sighed, taking his eyes off the stars and back onto Thomas. “I know. It’s just a bit frustrating is all, to be so damn happy and not be able to flaunt it in front of everyone.”

Thomas snorted. “Charming, you are.”

“Though it was nice to see Alfred so worked up over the fact that I had plans and he didn’t.”

“I doubt he’d feel the same way if he knew they were with me.”

“Well,” Jimmy shrugged, “what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

The lights of Downton were visible now, their glow a welcome sight after the chilly walk back. Though Jimmy couldn’t help but see them as the symbol of imprisonment; he and Thomas could never be properly together while they lived within those walls, spending so much time pretending to be something else. Thomas must have been thinking something similar, because he stopped walking, and gently tugged Jimmy’s hand until they were facing each other. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, my love,” he said softly, and tilted Jimmy’s chin up to kiss him. Their lips moved with each other in a now familiar touch, and Jimmy found that despite his misgivings he’d actually quite like to be back inside now, to get up to bed…

“Thank you,” Jimmy said when they broke apart. “Best Valentine’s day I’ve ever had, and I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

“Well then,” said Thomas as they walked the last stretch up to the house, “I’ve got my work cut out for next year then, haven’t I?” 

It was this flippant, but unthinkingly certain statement that there was a future for them, a flash of things yet to come, that helped Jimmy sleep easier from then on in. The nagging, dark, thoughts would still creep up on him every now and then, but all he had to do was roll over, and grasp Thomas’ hand where it lay on the sheets next to him, and they would recede. He had Thomas, and Thomas had him, and that was really all that mattered, when all was said and done.


	9. Astraphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written a couple of months ago when the weather was bad, and I was bitching and whining that I hadn't seen a fic where one of them is afraid of storms, so I wrote one. There are a couple of other pretty fab fics on a similar subject, if I remember rightly :) This one is long enough that I was going to post it as a separate fic... but then I didn't.
> 
> To sum up: Thomas is most definitely not a fan of thunder and lightening. Jimmy is surprisingly helpful.

**Astraphobia**

 

It was one of the few things that Thomas genuinely feared. Of course he did have other, more rational fears that he could put firm reasoning behind – job security, for example, was something that lurked in the back of the mind of anyone in service. But this was his one humiliating and utterly irrational fear – the one that bore no logic; like fear of spiders, clowns, or his sister’s strange aversion to buttons. It was embarrassing, but there was nothing to be done but carry on as best he could, and hope it never came to light. 

The past week or so had been humid and uncomfortable, the air grey and close, leaving the male staff tugging at their collars to cool the sweat on their necks, and the women fanning themselves agitatedly with their hands at every given opportunity. Everyone was constantly sluggish and red in the face. Thomas was just as uncomfortable as the rest, and even more irritable, as he looked to the heavy skies each morning, fearing a storm would break and expose his childish fears. He turned in for the night, as grumpy and sweaty as ever, under shirt sticking to his back as he flopped into bed. It was too sodding hot for pyjamas. 

The deep roll of thunder woke him a few hours later. He groaned, only half-conscious, thinking it to be the residue of a dream, tinged with his anxiety over the probable storms. But then a crackle of blue light shot across the sky, flashing through his thin curtains and throwing the contents of his bedroom into a sharp contrast of white and shadow. He was up in an instant, panic fluttering and growing within him, and he hurriedly turned on the lamp, hoping the dim light could dull the flashes coming through the window. Going through the familiar motions of lighting a cigarette, he tried to tamp down his agitation, though his hands shook as he fumbled about on the nightstand for his lighter. He eventually managed to get the damn thing lit, and sat on the edge of his bed smoking, one hand clenched on his thigh as he stared straight ahead, flinching every now and then as the thunder shook his very bones.  
There came a soft knock at his door, plucking at his already frayed nerves, and making him swear more heartily than he would permit himself to under normal circumstances. Swallowing his pride, Thomas shakily got to his feet. He had no choice but to answer the door, storm or no. At this point he didn’t particularly care who it was on the other side, as long as they buggered off and let him continue to hide through the abominable weather in peace. He opened the door to find himself face to face with Jimmy, who looked just as over tired and overheated as he was. Wonderful.

“I were going to the loo, and I saw your light on…” Jimmy trailed off and narrowed his eyes at Thomas’ probably quite harried appearance, a far cry from the usual poise he tried to maintain in the footman’s presence, “are you alright?”

“Yes, absolutely fine, Jimmy,” Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the window, praying the next roll and flash would hold off until after he’d got rid of him, “go back to bed.”

“Are you sure?” Jimmy looked groggy, but was still not easily fobbed off with Thomas’ poor acting. “You don’t look it.”

“Why thank you,” he said dryly, “but I assure you I’m – “ a deafening peal of thunder directly over the house cut off the rest of his assurances, and he couldn’t help but jerk violently in surprise, looking to the window with a sort of morbid curiosity. Sure enough, a flash of sheet lightning soon followed, obscuring his vision for a split second. 

Jimmy’s snort of disbelief made him look around again, just in time to see him roll his eyes with more drama than was strictly necessary, and barge his way past Thomas into the bedroom. “Right, of course you are. And I’m Phyllis Dare.” 

“Jimmy – “ he warned.

“I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what the matter is.” He waited for Thomas to sigh in resignation and gently push the door shut, before he sat on the chair at Thomas’ desk. “I’ve got all night.”

Fixing Jimmy with the coldest look he could manage, Thomas carefully sat on the edge of his bed, straight-backed and the very picture of indifference. Inside, of course, was a different matter entirely. Still, he succeeded in keeping himself together for a while, the time between each roar and the flash that followed making fear and anxiety build and flare up in the pit of his stomach, coming to a head each time the thunder and lightning assaulted his senses. It was hard to resist clamping his hands over his ears. He was adamant that Jimmy would not learn his humiliating secret – one more thing that could only lose him respect in the eyes of the footman – and if it came to battle of wills, he was determined to win. To his utter dismay, his confidence in himself was misplaced, and it was only so long before he could no longer hide his flinches, and the nervous sweat on his brow. Oh, sod it.

“I – I don’t much care for storms,” he said reluctantly, the crack it made in his pride almost tangible, “they… set me a bit on edge.”

“Oh. You’re afraid of thunder and lightning?” Jimmy said, and the optimistic part of Thomas thought it sounded more curious than mocking. But the way he had phrased it still nettled him.

“…If you want to put it like that, yes,” he said tightly.

“I’m afraid of frogs.”

_What._

Thomas looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring fixedly at to see Jimmy sitting serenely opposite him, not looking at all like he’d just said something that made absolutely no sense. “…Excuse me?” 

“When I were at school, quite young, mind, one of the other boys found a dead frog in the lane, and started throwing it about. Hit me square in the face, it did,” he shuddered, perhaps with a bit too much theatricality to be entirely sincere, but Thomas appreciated the effort. “Never liked ‘em since. Slimy, jumpy little buggers.” 

Thomas smiled ruefully and nodded, hoping the small gesture would convey his gratefulness for Jimmy’s silly little anecdote, and for not making a fuss of Thomas’ own inexplicable fears. The knot in his stomach loosened ever so slightly, and his back, taught with nerves, began to relax. 

“Right then,” Jimmy clapped his hands, and picked up the pack of cards on Thomas’ desk, “since you’ve already woken me up, how about a game or two? I’m convinced you let me win earlier, you sneaky so-and-so.” 

“Cheeky sod.” Reluctant to point out that he’d done nothing of the sort, and it had in fact been Jimmy who’d invited himself into Thomas’ room in the first place, he let the footman deal him in. 

When Thomas woke the storm had lifted, and the pale light of a clear day came strong through the curtains. The events of the night before were hazy, and what he could remember consisted mainly of the terrible and laughable anguish that came over him whenever a storm broke. But when he looked down at his bed to see the playing cards scattered across it and the floor, the image of Jimmy sitting across from him in dull lamplight, smiling through the thunder and his abysmal defeat at their game came back to him. He was gone now, though, and had obviously not bothered to pick up the cards before he’d left. But Jimmy had, Thomas noticed, managed to drag one of the sheets up to cover him while he slept, which in the heat hadn’t been the most sensible of ideas, but the thought that he’d taken he time to do so was a lovely one all the same. 


	10. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this one... I might edit it a bit tomorrow, I just wanted to get it posted.   
> It was for one of the playing card prompts - I think it was fluff, a suitcase, Alfred, and the hospital.

**Unexpected**

 

Thomas felt rough as hell when he woke up. His room was annoyingly bright, and he closed his eyes immediately against the onslaught. Everything felt sore and heavy, and he wondered for a moment if he wasn’t still in a strange, lucid dream, held down by invisible weights on his chest. When he finally forced his eyes open again, he realised he wasn’t in his room at all, but the small ward of the village hospital. What on earth..?

“You fainted,” said a voice next to the bed, in answer to Thomas’ silent question. He jumped, and shifted to see Jimmy perched on the edge of a chair, gripping his knees tightly and looking almost as tired as Thomas. “And right before dinner too. Mr Carson was in a right state.”

“Jimmy,” he blurted, “what are you doing here?” Not that Thomas wasn’t pleased to see him, but it still struck him as odd. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking what you’re doing here?” Jimmy smiled, though his jaw was tight and it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Alright,” said Thomas gently, hoping to soothe Jimmy’s clearly frayed nerves, as though it were him rather than Thomas in the hospital bed. “What happened?”

Jimmy sat back in the chair, in an obvious effort to try and appear more relaxed. “Well, as I said, you fainted. Just sort of… slid down against the wall outside the kitchen. Everyone was in a right panic,” he laughed, thin and strained, and pushed his hair from his eyes. “We called the doctor, and moved you down here quick as we could. Long story short, he said you’ve got a nasty chest infection.”

“Ah,” said Thomas, slightly sheepish. He’d been feeling run down for the past week or so, but his pride hadn’t permitted him to say anything. And that would explain why his throat was sore and his chest felt as though Isis was sitting on it. “Well, I had been feeling a bit under the weather, I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you bloody say anything?” Jimmy swatted him on the arm, with what seemed to be genuine worry.

“I – “ Thomas stuttered, still not quite with it and taken aback by Jimmy’s unexpected show of concern. “I thought it would pass. And I didn’t want to make a fuss if it turned out to be nothing.”

“Well it weren’t ‘nothing’ were it,” said Jimmy hotly, his accent thickening in annoyance as he glared at Thomas.

“Alright,” he grumbled, wincing as his shifted his weight on the pillows, “no need to get stroppy. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“I –“ it was Jimmy’s turn to hesitate as his ears turned pink, “I were worried, that’s all,” he mumbled.

“Oh,” Thomas looked down at his hands, touched and a little surprised by Jimmy’s concern for his wellbeing. They were friends of course, and got on well enough these days, but sometimes Thomas felt things between them were still a little one-sided. “What’ve you got there?” he said, nodding to the object on Jimmy’s lap, mainly to change the subject and distract from his own awkward inner monologue.

The flush of Jimmy’s ears spread down along his neck. “I um, I packed a suitcase for you. Doctor Clarkson said you’d be here for a few days, at least, so I thought you might want a few things to tide you over.” It was then Thomas realised that, out of everyone up at the house, Jimmy was probably the only one who’d know exactly what he’d want packed. Huh.

“…Thank you.”

“S’alright,” said Jimmy as he put the case on the floor. “I brought you something to eat too, if you fancy it.” He nodded to the small tin on the bedside table, packed tightly with neatly cut squares of chocolate cake. “Probably taste better then what they’d give you here, at any rate. Alfred said they were your favourite.”

“Well he’s right,” said Thomas, “but how the bloody hell did he know that?”

“He asked Daisy. They made a batch for you together last night,” Jimmy wrinkled his nose, as though the very idea of Alfred and Daisy knocking elbows as they baked side by side in the kitchen was distasteful. 

“That was…” unexpected, “nice, of them. Tell them thanks, won’t you?”

“’Course,” Jimmy grinned at him.

“Have one, if you like,” Thomas said, stifling a yawn.

“No thanks,” Jimmy shook his head, “I’m not much of a one for sweet things, you know that. And you should get some more sleep.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “yes, matron.”

“I mean it. I can’t cope with all their nonsense up there on me own, so you’d best get well again sharpish.”

“Fine, fine,” Thomas huffed, and made a great show of settling back down under the blankets. “Happy now, your Lordship?”

“For now.” 

As much as the idea of Jimmy seeing him doze off embarrassed him, he was bloody tired, and keeping his eyes open any longer seemed entirely too much effort. Once or twice though, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he could have sworn he felt a hand clasped loosely about his own, and fingers running through his hair.


	11. Nice Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short, snow-based fluff. 100% what will be happening in the s5 CS. 
> 
> Thanks to di1682 and Trampadoo, for their consistently lovely comments :)

**Nice Enough**

 

“It’s vile, isn’t it.”

“Utterly disgusting.”

“They’re so ruddy soppy, it makes me feel sick.”

“Nauseating.”

Jimmy frowned at the couple walking in front of he and Thomas, wincing as Miss Baxter threw a handful of powdery snow at Mr Molesley, the pair of them giggling like children. “Ugh Lord. It’s like the Bateses all over again in’t it.”

“Mm,” Thomas agreed, “ but worse. I may not care much for Bates, but at least he’s not a complete idiot.”

“I mean, Miss Baxter’s alright I s’pose…”

Thomas snorted, “How generous of you.”

Jimmy shrugged and pulled his jacket collar tighter around his neck to keep out the cold. Thomas was wearing a scarf. He wished he’d thought of that. “She’s a bit of a bore maybe, but nice enough. Molesley’s just…” he trailed off, but the man in question made Jimmy’s point for him by tripping over his own feet, nearly falling face first into the snow before Baxter caught his arm. 

“Isn’t he just,” said Thomas flatly. 

“Ugh look,” said Jimmy, probably far more loudly than he should have, pointing at the sight that so offended him, “they’re bloody holding hands now.”

Thomas didn’t say anything, and Jimmy, who’d been expecting a hearty agreement at how infuriating the couple was being, looked at him in mild concern. His face was blank, as Thomas was often careful to keep it, but Jimmy noticed his hand clench and relax by his side. 

Oh.

Looking over his shoulder to be sure the snowy street was deserted apart from Baxter, Molesley, and themselves, Jimmy edged a little closer to the other man as they walked, and closed his fingers around Thomas’. He felt his face heat up horribly despite the cold, and he wished he wasn’t so prone to blushing. Thomas glanced at him, corner of his mouth lifting in a supressed smile, and Jimmy knew he’d done the right thing.   
God, Thomas was turning him soft and no mistake. But as long as they never became so nauseatingly soppy as the couple traipsing through the snow ahead of them, Jimmy was alright with that.


	12. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all the distress of the spoilers today, I almost forgot to post. This will be the last one for a little while though, until I've written some more lol.  
> Written for an anonymous prompt on Tumblr; Jimmy comforting Thomas on Remembrance day.   
> Mild spoilers for s5, only because this was based around some bts photos.

**Remembrance**

Jimmy was bored. Bored with the speeches, sentiments, shiny plaques and polished uniforms that had nothing whatsoever to do with the war. Not the war he’d fought, anyway. He would rather have put it out of his mind altogether than have them drag it all up again with such pomp and ceremony. It was over and done, and he was all for keeping it that way. Fed up, he looked about him, concluding that not many of the Downton folk felt the same way. Most had their heads bowed in respect or sorrow as they listened to Carson drone about duty and sacrifice. (Jimmy was fairly sure he’d heard parts of the speech before in the servants’ hall one morning when the butler had given him a lecture for tardiness.) A few were crying – Daisy and Mrs Patmore included. They’d both lost someone in the war of course, but then, who hadn’t? Jimmy’d lost his own dad, but you wouldn’t catch him blubbing everywhere. He looked to where the family sat; three children among them now, though there’d been none when he’d started at Downton. All three were missing a parent, and yet their losses had nothing to do with the war. It had not been the end of the world, as many had feared it would be.

Carson was still droning, and Jimmy was now bored beyond measure. He was looking absently at the monument they’d erected to mark the tenth anniversary of the start of the war, when a movement to the side caught his eye.   
Mr Barrow’s hand, the smooth, unmarred one, was gripping tight at his knee, mere inches from Jimmy’s own. His knuckles were white. Curious, Jimmy tried to look subtly to Thomas’ face, to guess at what was troubling him. He’d better not be bloody crying too; Jimmy didn’t think he could handle that. But he wasn’t. Of course not. Jimmy didn’t even think he looked sad – if anything, he looked angry. His jaw was clenched tight, making his whole face sharper. His mouth looked thin, paler, but his lip curled back almost in a sneer. His eyes were carefully blank, as Jimmy had noticed they often were, when Thomas was trying to check himself, and staring fixedly at the ground in front of him. He looked about ready to burst. 

Jimmy couldn’t rightly say what it was that made him do it. In simplest terms, Thomas looked troubled, and Jimmy didn’t like it. Without thinking, he reached across and covered Thomas’ hand with his own. It was warmer than he’d been expecting. The rage on Thomas’ face stuttered, then flickered out altogether as he blinked, confused, at Jimmy’s hand over his.   
He gaped at Jimmy, who felt suddenly silly and a little self-conscious, and tried harder to feign interest in Carson’s speech. It didn’t make Thomas’ scrutiny any easier to bear. He didn’t move his hand though. The fact that he’d found himself clasping Thomas’ hand to bring comfort to him in some small way was a reminder that though the past was been and done, the future was far from settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FUTURE IS FAR FROM SETTLED, GUYS <3


	13. Only If You're Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is saved in my documents as 'Fluff to soothe the awful spoilers.'   
> Contains mild s5 spoilers, though if you're reading this, I'm assuming you know what went down in s5E2. Ugh.

**Only If You're Good**

“I wish you could’ve found work somewhere a bit closer,” Thomas splashed now cold water from the room’s wash basin over his face. It didn’t make him feel any less tired. “I hate having to pay to stay in the pub.”

_“You_ hate it?” Jimmy snorted and flung a stray sock at Thomas’ back. “At least you’ve still got a decent wage comin’ in, up at the house.” 

“Stop your whinging,” Thomas dried his face and turned to look at Jimmy, who was still mostly unclothed and sprawled across the bed. The scratchy bed sheets did little to hide what was underneath. “You’ve got a job, haven’t you?”

“A bloody awful one,” Jimmy’s face scrunched up in distaste.

“Oh, come now,” Thomas sat next to him on the bed, “I thought you loved an evening out at a pub.”

“Not when I’m the one pulling the pints,” Jimmy muttered. “And I haven’t spent a penny on the ponies in weeks. All I don’t spend on rent, I spend on the train and staying ‘ere.” 

“Anyone would think I were forcing you,” Thomas ran his hand through Jimmy’s hair. Partly to wind him up – though his hair was already mussed with sleep, further disarray would no doubt irritate him. But mainly because he knew Jimmy secretly rather liked the feeling of Thomas’ fingers in his hair. “Besides, I’ve told you before – I don’t mind paying for you.”

“And I’ve told you, I’ll not have it,” Jimmy said sharply, though he relaxed into Thomas’ touch. “I pay my own way.”

“I know,” Thomas leant over him, pressing a brief kiss to Jimmy’s lips, resting their foreheads together, “but I want you to remember that I’m offering, all the same.”

“Soppy bugger.”

“Mm.” Thomas sat up again. Jimmy followed, closing the meagre distance between them to take Thomas’ bottom lip between his own. He pulled back for a moment, only to kiss Thomas again, equally brief but harder. 

“Are you sure you have to go?” Jimmy’s voice was low and thick in a way Thomas had been fortunate enough to become very well acquainted with in the past few months since Jimmy had left Downton. Though he only got to hear it every few weeks when Jimmy could get enough money together and the time off work to travel up for a night or two, it’s effect had been profound. “It’s still early.”

“Yes. And I’d better go sharpish, or I won’t be in any fit state to serve breakfast.”

Jimmy huffed and flopped back onto the sheets. “Mr Barrow, you tease.”

“Bloody rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, just sod off to work then, why don’t you,” Jimmy reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. “But don’t work too hard, mind. I’ll need you to give me a good and proper seeing to before I have to get back on that bloody train tomorrow.” 

Irritating as it was, Thomas still couldn’t stop the heat rising up his neck when Jimmy said such outright things to him. He’d probably get used to it in time; though he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. “Only if you’re good,” he said, and stood before the ex-footman found a way to distract him further. He was already late. “I’ll see you later. Take care.”

“Thomas?”

“Mm?” he turned at the door to see Jimmy looking at him with that sincere, open face he so rarely wore, that made Thomas want to shut the door and lock them both away from the rest of the world. The rest of the world didn’t matter all that much, when he had Jimmy. 

“I – you too.”


	14. Fitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy borrows something of Lady Edith's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is tiny, but one of my favourites. I'd love to write a longer fic on it one day.  
> A little more risqué than some of the other chapters. Contains crossdressing, just in case that ain't your thing ;)

**Fitting**

“Jimmy… where did you get that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he smiled, and took an exaggerated drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke high above his head.

“Actually, yes.” Something Anna had said a few weeks previously about trips to the dressmakers stirred in Thomas’ memory as he looked over the bright fabric and intricate beading pulled tight across Jimmy’s chest. _Oh bugger._ “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said slowly, “but is that Lady Edith’s?” 

Jimmy looked even more pleased with himself, the cheeky sod, as he deliberately smoothed a gloved hand over the skirts. “It might be.”

Thomas belatedly realised he hadn’t shut the door behind him, and moved to do so now, hoping to buy a few more seconds in which to collect himself. He was not successful. “How in the bloody hell did you get your hands on that?”

Jimmy stared at him, unimpressed, face even more expressive than usual due to the careful outlining of his features with cosmetics. Somebody must have helped him with that, and Thomas didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse. “Thomas, is that really the question you want to be asking me right now?” 

“Well what else should I be – “ Thomas’ outraged question died on his lips as Jimmy slowly crossed his legs where he sat, the risqué slit up the side of the skirts causing the fabric to slip away, exposing his stockinged leg, complete with suspender pulled tight against his thigh.

“Oh my giddy aunt…”


	15. Here We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ficlet prompt - first vacation together. I'd like to write more of this, but we'll see.

**Here We Are**

“Here we are,” Thomas took the tiny key – that Jimmy had not been trusted with – from his pocket, and unlocked the door of the beach hut. 

“About bloody time,” Jimmy said under his breath, “it felt like we were on that train for days.”

“Fusspot,” Thomas said, and searched for his cigarettes. It had been a long train journey from Downton to the most south westerly tip of the country, yes, but he had enjoyed it. The day was sunny and the view from the window fine, and Jimmy had fallen asleep on his shoulder halfway through Somerset. 

“It’s a bit smaller than I thought,” said Jimmy, with a dubious look around at the rustic furniture and white washed slats of the beach hut, “but it’ll do I s’pose.”

“Mm, how gracious of you.” Thomas thought it quite pleasant actually, in a simple, seaside sort of way; with a view down over the shingle beach to the sea, silent save for the gulls and the rush of sleepy waves on the shore. But the charming scenery wasn’t the only reason for their trip. “Come here, you.” 

Jimmy grinned and moved into the circle of his arms, hands running up the back of Thomas’ travel creased jacket. They kissed, slow and languid, easy in the knowledge that they had an entire day and night of solitude stretching before them.


	16. Hot Cross Buns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tumblr prompt - spending a holiday together.

**Hot Cross Buns**

_Half for you and half for me, between us two, good luck shall be._

The air of the kitchen was warm and light, traces of spices and fruit hung sweet as Daisy and Mrs Patmore slipped heavily loaded trays into the oven. It was Good Friday, and as tradition dictated, they were making hot cross buns. 

It was no secret that Mr Barrow enjoyed sweet things. Jimmy had heard Mrs Patmore admonish him for swiping morsels from the kitchen often enough, and he was always among the first reaching for the plate if the cook set down a batch of biscuits with tea. Jimmy had noticed, you see. But today it was even more apparent – the under butler was lingering in the servants’ hall, shooting covert glances towards the kitchen. 

“Waiting for something, Mr Barrow?” he said lightly, taking the seat opposite at the table.

“What?” Mr Barrow looked thoroughly caught out for a moment, before affecting his usual, haughty air. “I can’t think what you mean, Jimmy.”

“Is that so?” Jimmy tried not to openly grin, and was only partly successful. “You know, my old mum used to say that if you tear a hot cross bun in half, and share it with a friend, you’ll both have good luck for the next year.”

Thomas frowned, “I’ve not heard that before.”

“It’s true,” said Jimmy with a shrug. “She used to cut one in half every Good Friday, while it was still warm, and we’d share it.” The memory was a little more painful than he’d anticipated, but he was determined to tell Mr Barrow the whole story, now he’d started. “The first year we didn’t was the one she died, actually, apart from the war.”

Mr Barrow looked as though he didn’t know whether to offer his belated condolences, or be pleased Jimmy had shared the little snippet of his life with him. “Oh.”

“So,” said Jimmy, straightening up and finding a smile, “I’ll be needing someone new to share a bun with…” he hesitated. “If you’d like to?”

Looking far more touched than anyone should at the offer to share baked goods, Mr Barrow blinked at him, silent for a long moment. Then his oftentimes carefully blank face creased into a smile as he shook his head. “Sod off, I’m not sharing my ruddy bun with anyone.”

“Not even me?” Jimmy said, mock affronted.

“Not even you, Jimmy Kent,” said Thomas with a smile, getting to his feet to see if the buns were ready yet.

Jimmy stared after him for a moment, before following him into the warmth of the cinnamon scented kitchen. Well, he couldn’t let Thomas claim the biggest for himself, now could he?


	17. Exploration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt - exploring each other's bodies.

**Exploration**

Thomas had for some time entertained the thought that, if by some miracle he and Jimmy should fall into bed together, he would take things slowly. Partly for Jimmy’s benefit of course, but for his own enjoyment also. He would want to savour what he’d waited so long for, or – less rationally – to make the most of it, should it all turn out to be some sort of cruelly vivid and fantastical dream.   
So naturally, when Jimmy did eventually crawl into Thomas’ bed one night, he made sure to make it last. He traced his lips and the tips of his fingers over every curve, every taut line of Jimmy’s body, taking the time to know every perfect inch of him. As heavenly as this exploration was, the real surprise came when Jimmy turned over, breathless and determined, to reciprocate. Whether it was borne of a sense of obligation, or arousal, imitation, or simply hoping to please him, Thomas didn’t much care, just then.   
He lay stunned under Jimmy attentions, as his hands, endearingly clumsy, touched at his neck and grasped his shoulder, ran fingers through the hair on his chest, pressed a halting kiss to his belly, to his thigh. The determined set of his lovely face would falter in surprise or pleasure when his touch made Thomas gasp and stretch, in turn making Jimmy moan and rock absently against Thomas’ hip. The onslaught of sensation from Jimmy’s touches, soft noises of pleasure, and even the smell of his skin for God’s sake, converged to make Thomas feel both taut and slack, heavy and weightless. As he reached the point of crisis, he brought his hand to the back of Jimmy’s neck, pulling him down into a gasping, bruising kiss.  
As sleep began to claim them, Jimmy smiling into Thomas’ neck, he continued his exploration, to find the places where his hands fit best on Thomas’ body, to hold him close as they slept.


	18. Good Fortune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Christmas ficlet written for Lizzy384 <3

**Good Fortune**

“Where’d you get this, then?” 

Jimmy snorted. “The bookshop. Where’d you think?”

“Don’t be cheeky. It’s far nicer then the copies they sell in Ripon,” Thomas frowned. “I’ve looked.”

“I ordered it. I – I know how much you like it. And your copy was all old and tatty, so...”

“It’s beautiful Jimmy, thank you,” said Thomas softly.

“You’re welcome.” Jimmy peered at the Christmas gift he’d given Thomas. It was a copy of Pride and Prejudice, bound neatly in green leather, with raised gold lettering on the front. It had cost Jimmy more than he ever thought he’d pay for a book. “I still can’t think why you like it so much. I had a flick through, and it seemed pretty dull to me.”

“I happen to admire the protagonist,” said Thomas haughtily. “She knows what she’s about.”

“Right,” said Jimmy flatly, “and it ends with true love, I suppose?”

“Maybe,” said Thomas, “ but they have to work for it first.” He stood and went to his dresser, taking a selection of parcels from a drawer. “Your turn.”

He’d bought Jimmy a little box of Swiss chocolates, purchased when last in London, and a luxurious set of toiletries he couldn’t wait to start using. The final gift was a lighter, a fine little thing that caught the light nicely when Jimmy held it in his palm. 

“So you’ll stop stealing mine,” Thomas said with a smirk.

Jimmy very much appreciated the gesture, but was sure he’d go on borrowing Thomas’ anyway. He liked to. 

“It’s a shame we can’t go for a walk or summat,” said Jimmy a while later, looking absently to the window. He was itching to get outside into the pale, frosty day, after the stuffiness that came with the house on days of rich food and stoked fires. But they couldn’t. It was still a work day, after all, Christmas or no.

“I don’t know about that,” Thomas said. “I’m so bloody full it’ll be a miracle if I can drag myself upstairs to serve later. He looked it too; full and sleepy and leaning back on the bedclothes. He rather reminded Jimmy of a big tom cat that had belonged to a childhood neighbour.

Jimmy smiled, fleeting and genuine, before reluctantly getting to his feet. “I’d best go down,” he said. “I promised Alfred I’d win at least two hands of cards before we have to get back to work.”

“Alright,” Thomas made to follow,” I s’pose I should too.”

“No, wait.” Jimmy stopped him.

“What’s the matter?”

“I… wrote something in the front of the book,” Jimmy said, opening Thomas’ door. “Take a look, would you? Before you come down?”

Thomas nodded, bewildered, and Jimmy went back down to the servants’ hall, giddy with anticipation over Thomas reading the inscription, the confession, he’d written in the front of the novel.

_Thomas,_   
_You may not be a single man in possession of a good fortune, but I love you all the same._   
_Merry Christmas._   
_J._


	19. One Night Only

**One Night Only**

“It was only meant to be for one night, you know,” Jimmy lay on his front, looking up to where Thomas leant against the headboard. The sun was coming in through the window behind him, so bright that Jimmy couldn’t see his face properly, only a dark outline against the morning sky. 

“What are you on about?” Realising Jimmy was now awake, Thomas reached over to put his fingers through his hair.

“The first night I came to your bed,” Jimmy closed his eyes against the sun, relaxed into the touch, breathing the heavy scent of sleep and their bodies. “I wanted you so badly. I thought if we could be together, just the once, then I could forget about it.”

Thomas snorted. “Well that backfired on you, didn’t it.” It was a testament to how far they’d come that he could joke about it.

“Shh you,” said Jimmy, reaching out blindly to poke him in the side, “or I’ll go back to me own bed.”

“I’ll just have to think of a way to keep you here then, won’t I,” Thomas’ voice was low and teasing, his lips soft on Jimmy’s neck.

They both knew it was an empty threat; Jimmy wouldn’t be so easily swayed back to his own cold sheets, not since the day he’d stopped thinking of Thomas’ bed as only his, and come to see it as ‘theirs’ instead.


	20. Bad Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so attached to this one. Tiny bit if fluff set in the bath.  
> We've reached twenty ayyyyyy

**Bad Habits**

“Do you have to do that in here?” Thomas frowned.

“Do what?” said Jimmy vaguely, not looking up from where he was determinedly digging at a spec of dirt under his fingernail.

“You know what,” said Thomas, nudging Jimmy with his foot. “Pick your sodding nails while we’re in the bath.”

Jimmy looked up, mildly affronted, to where Thomas sat at the opposite end of the tub. “I thought that’s what baths were for,” he said, “getting clean.”

“Mm, not when we’re in it together,” Thomas said, eyeing the surface of the water with distaste, “I don’t want whatever’s been stuck under your fingernails floating around in here thank you very much.” Logic dictated that there were probably far worse things lurking in their shared bathwater, but he was trying to make a point.

“Well,” he could see Jimmy casting about for a retort, face setting in satisfaction when he found one. “I don’t like it when you do that in here,” he nodded triumphantly at Thomas’ right hand, resting on the edge of the bath with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “I like to come out of the bath smelling like soap, not an ash tray.”

“You smoke in the bath too,” Thomas said smoothly, taking a deliberately long drag and watching Jimmy’s frown deepen.

“I do not!”

“You bloody well do,” he let the smoke drift slow from between his lips, Jimmy glaring at its progress. “You did it yesterday – your cigarette end’s still over by the sink.”

“That’s different,” Jimmy said, face pink from embarrassment and the warm water, “that’s only if we’ve… you know… first.”

“Poor excuse love,” said Thomas blithely, stubbing out the cigarette in the gaudy pink ash tray balanced on the bath’s edge. Jimmy had given it to him that Christmas as a joke. “Better?”

“Yes,” Jimmy huffed, abandoning the picking of his fingernails, “now come here.” He held out his arms, water dripping down from his elbows.

“Yes m’lord,” Thomas rolled his eyes and heaved himself over to the other end of the tub and sloshing a good deal of water over the edge for his efforts, before settling between Jimmy’s outstretched legs and leaning back against his chest.

“Don’t say that,” he felt Jimmy shift in behind him in discomfort, “makes me think of Lord Grantham.”

“Mm, not an ideal subject for the bath, I s’pose,” Thomas said, as Jimmy moved his hands down over his chest with a gentle familiarity. He tipped his head back to press a kiss to Jimmy’s neck, and they lay together in the humid, stuffy air of the bathroom until the water cooled, and they dragged themselves reluctantly from the tub and to bed.


	21. Put to Rights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hobbies include making Jimmy cry :)
> 
> I posted this on Tumblr some time last year. It's probably a bit too long to count as a drabble, and also from Daisy's PoV, but I didn't want to post it as a separate fic. I haven't read it through since then, so God knows what it reads like.

**Put to Rights**

It was shortly after the family’s luncheon that Mrs Patmore had gone up to bed. She’d clearly been feeling poorly all morning, despite her emphatic claims to the opposite, and quite frankly Daisy had had enough of having to keep an eye out in case she fainted at any given moment. Once the kitchen was cleared after the family had been seen to, Daisy tentatively approached Mrs Hughes and asked if she could perhaps talk the cook into going for a lie down. Much to her relief, the housekeeper had worked her magic, and Mrs Patmore had ambled upstairs to rest.  
Now, with lunch over, Mrs Patmore in bed, and the family dining elsewhere that evening, Daisy had an hour or so with nothing to do. This was such a rare occurrence in the middle of the day, that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. It was a dark and rainy afternoon, so anything outdoors was out of the question. Not that she knew what she’d be doing outside, mind. She could write a letter maybe, to Alfred or to Mr Mason. Perhaps even to Ivy – she was keen to hear how the other girl was getting on, despite their past bad feeling. She wasn’t much good at letter writing though; she never knew what she should say. In the end, she decided to do what she often did when she wasn’t sure where to begin – she made a cup of tea. 

The kitchen was just as gloomy as the rest of the house; rain battering the small windows of downstairs with fat, heavy drops against the glass. Daisy hummed to herself to keep away the dismal feel of the afternoon as she tied her apron. It worked, after a fashion. Turning to fill the kettle, she jumped and almost dropped it when she discovered she wasn’t alone.

“Jimmy! What in heaven’s name are you doing in ‘ere?”

Surely there was something else for him to be getting on with; Mr Carson would have seen to that, family dining out or otherwise. The footman didn’t answer her. In fact he didn’t even flinch, but continued to stare fixedly at the grey afternoon through the window. Hand over her thumping heart and cursing the knack for moving silently many of those in service seemed to possess, Daisy set down the kettle. 

“Jimmy?” He still said nothing, but his jaw tightened, and his hand clenched into a fist by his side. Oh dear. “Jimmy, what’s the matter?” She didn’t like to pry, but it was only natural to ask. It was then he sniffed, chin held up determinedly as he stared at the rain sweeping the sky. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn his cheeks were as wet as the window panes.

“Are you cry – “ she stopped herself before she blurted the obvious. Her Auntie Nel had always chided her for stating what was plain to see. And though she still couldn’t claim to know Jimmy well, even after working together several years, she knew enough to guess that he would not appreciate her drawing attention to his tears. He got awful funny about things like that. There must have been something very wrong for him to be crying somewhere so public as the kitchen, where any number of people might happen to walk in on him. But the very strangeness of the circumstance made her even less certain on what could be done about it. 

“Should I fetch someone?” she tried instead. She had no idea who exactly could be of any help, but she didn’t know what else to suggest. Mrs Hughes, maybe, if it was something serious? Perhaps Thomas… he seemed to be better friends with the under butler than he was with anyone else, strange as it may be.

He shook his head sharply, just once, like a horse trying to shake off a fly. “No. Just – no. Leave me be.” That were a no, then. Though she supposed it was a good sign that he at least acknowledged her that time. In truth, the two of them didn’t speak all that often. He used to be in the kitchen a lot, though she’d since realised that it was more to tease Alfred and Ivy than anything else. Now the both of them were gone, he only usually appeared in the kitchens when he was required to do so. They may not have been friends as such, but it still sat poorly with Daisy to see somebody looking so downtrodden and not do a thing about it. He could complain all he liked, she wasn’t leaving until she’d at least tried to improve his mood.

“I’m making tea. Would you like a cup?” 

No answer that time. He’d gone back to pretending she wasn’t there, gazing stonily out the window as though he’d find the answer to whatever plagued him, if he just looked hard enough. But she took down two cups all the same as the water came to the boil. Daisy felt she should say something more, comfort him somehow, but she had no idea what she could say that she hadn’t done already, and doubted even more that Jimmy would deign to answer her anyway. She simply started humming again, the same tune as earlier, hoping the only slightly off key melody would soothe him. She left his cup by his elbow on the worktop, steam from the hot tea pale in the gloom of the kitchen. As an afterthought, she left the sugar bowl there too. After living in the same house for years, she still had no idea if he took sugar in his tea or not. It was a bit sad really – she’d known how all the other footmen had taken their tea.

“Jimmy?” she said quietly, wanting to put her hand on his shoulder but stopping herself, guessing the gesture would be unwelcome – he never seemed to like it much when people touched him, even just in passing. “I’m sorry you’re sad. If you want for anything, I’ll just be in the servants’ hall, alright?” 

His eyes flickered, and he seemed to come back to himself a little, glancing at her from under his unusually unkempt hair. He even tried a smile, though it was unconvincing and miles away from his usual polished expression. “Yes,” he answered, voice low and a little raspy from crying, “thank you, Daisy.”

“You’re welcome.” His admission surprised her a little; usually he would adamantly deny anything that even came close to a perceived weakness. She gave him one last small smile and turned to the servants’ hall. Hopefully she’d managed to improve his mood a little, though she didn’t think she was all that good at comforting people – she found it hard to tell how they were feeling to begin with, never mind how to cheer them up.

“Daisy?”

She turned back. “Mm?”

“Have you ever messed something up so badly, that you’re not sure it can ever be put to rights?”

“I don’t know. Though I do think everyone feels that way, once or twice,” she bit her lip, deciding whether or not to share one of her sillier moments. “Did you know, I once almost poisoned the whole family and a houseful of funeral guests after Mr Patrick died.”

“You never did.”

She nodded, “I did. Don’t tell Mrs Patmore though… I’ve managed to keep it from her ten years, I don’t need her finding out now.” 

~

A little while later, and true to her word, Daisy was sitting in the servants’ hall, tea half drunk and old photo play spread out on the scrubbed wood of the table top. To be honest, the story wasn’t all that thrilling, but the pictures were lovely enough that it didn’t seem to matter. Every now and then, she’d glance up at the clock, feeling a little guilty about taking so much time to herself. But after a while she stopped, and even more or less forgot about Jimmy’s strange behaviour, so lost she was in the glamorous faces on the page. That is, until she heard the back door swing open with a swirl of cold, damp air. Thomas tramped into the servants’ hall, rain dripping from his coat and the brim of his hat onto the flagstones of the floor. 

“Afternoon, Daisy.”

“Thomas!” she dropped the biscuit she’d been nibbling at, “what on earth were you doing outside in that? You’ll catch your death.” 

“It’s Mr Barrow,” he said, but with good humour as he swung his drenched coat off his shoulders, “and never you mind. You wouldn’t make me a cuppa, would you?” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” she brushed the crumbs from her fingers and looked towards the kitchen, suddenly recalling Jimmy’s strange behaviour, not sure what was best to do. But the two of them were friends after all, Thomas would want to know. “But… there’s something I should tell you first.” 

“Oh?”

“Jimmy’s in the kitchen. He – “ she lowered her voice so the footman wouldn’t hear her, “I think he’s been crying.”

Thomas’ face dropped instantly; the vague cheeriness of a moment ago replaced with concern. In the old days, she didn’t think he would have let himself look sad – he’d always been so carefully straight-faced. She had thought it suited him, once, a sort of stern handsomeness. But she liked it better now you could see when he was troubled, or happy. And these days it was more often the latter, thank the Lord. 

“That’s certainly not like him,” Thomas said, with a careful attempt at lightness that even Daisy could see through in an instant. “Do you – did he say what the matter was?” 

Daisy shook her head, “no, I don’t think he really wanted to talk about it. But I did make him some tea, though.” 

“Because all the world’s problems can be solved with a cuppa?” he laughed softly, “that’s my girl.”

“It’s what Mrs Patmore always says.”

“Mm, a fountain of wisdom, is Mrs Patmore,” he rolled his eyes, “I suppose I’d better go and see what it is Mr Kent is sulking about.” He moved towards the kitchen. 

“Oh, didn’t you want me to make you some tea?” she made to stand. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“No,” he said quickly, “don’t trouble yourself. I can sort it.”

“If you say so…” she said, but he’d already gone. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the tea or Jimmy, but either way she hoped he wouldn’t make a mess of things.

~

By evening the rain had finally stopped battering the windows, and the sky outside the house was cold and still once more. Everyone seemed to have let out a great breath, and put the dour mood the wet afternoon had brought behind them. Mrs Hughes reported that Mrs Patmore was feeling a little better after a few hours rest, and would likely be up and about again tomorrow.  
After the dinner things had been cleared away, and the staff had all settled to whatever it was they saw fit for the evening, Daisy thought that Jimmy looked a bit more cheery. She still had no idea what it was that had upset him so, and nor was it her place to be asking, but supposed it didn’t matter all that much if he was feeling better.  
She’d heard a whispered argument and murmurs of comforting words after Thomas had gone to find him earlier. Jimmy had stomped off upstairs murmuring about people minding their own business, looking every bit as sour and close to tears as he had been when Daisy had spoken to him. But Thomas had followed him up to the men’s quarters, looking equally thunderous, where she distinctly heard a door slam. There was no way of knowing what Thomas could have said to clear up the matter, but whatever it was must have done the trick, as the two of them were now sitting together at the end of the table, half in shadow as they chatted. Jimmy was even smiling, though his eyes were still red. Miracles did happen.  
Before long the pair of them stood, flipping open a pack of cigarettes and heading to the back door. Daisy glanced up as they walked past, meeting Thomas’ eyes as he gave her a nod. She smiled a little in return, before going back to the tear she was mending in her spare apron. As the pair were leaving the room, she looked up again, just in time to see their fingertips brush as they rounded the corner.


	22. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny self-indulgent ficlet to distract myself from the misery fest that is series six. I hate it.  
> Aaaand I know I've written something similar to this before, but I just really like the idea.

**Morning**

It was quiet, but a different sort of quiet to what Thomas was used to. It wasn’t the warm and heavy silence of early morning at Downton, the sun risen over the still trees and hidden corners of the grounds. It wasn’t silent here by any means – the unfamiliar sea birds were up and calling to each other on the cliff tops, the sea breaking gently on the shingle, and soft voiced women greeting each other on the cobbled streets – the noises were unobtrusive and gentle, and, dare he say it, pleasant. Not the bustle of maids and hallboys and the screeching of Mrs Patmore as they made ready for the day.

Jimmy wasn’t awake yet. He lay at Thomas’ side, one arm flung out over the edge of the mattress, the other firmly across Thomas’ chest. They hadn’t had it easy. Far from it, after all their misunderstandings and disagreements and reconciliations, their partings and their reunions, incessant whisperings behind their backs. But Thomas wouldn’t have things any different, not if it meant he had Jimmy at the end of it all. To their mutual surprise, it had been Jimmy who’d sought him out; Jimmy who’d gone through hell and high water to get back to Downton, and to Thomas. He stirred in his sleep, brow creased in a slight frown, his breath warming Thomas’ neck.

The night before, Thomas had made some poor joke about it being their honeymoon of sorts, most likely in an attempt to stop himself getting utterly lost in the small kisses and delightfully soft touches of Jimmy’s fingers across his back. Jimmy had paused, and muttered something about Thomas being daft and sentimental, but he hadn’t been able to hide the flush and pleased little smile that crept across his face. Jimmy had always been easy to read, and Thomas was still unsure if it was a blessing or a curse. 

They only had the one night together in the little bed and breakfast by the coast (the address of which had been given to him with a wink and a knowing grin by an old acquaintance) before Thomas had to be back at Downton. He was leaving for good in a month’s time anyway, but Jimmy had been impatient to make the trip as soon as possible, before the weather turned and before they had to focus all of their attention on real plans. Thomas had tried to be irritated at his pushing, but it was hard when he’d wanted it just as much. They should be getting up soon, really, or they’d miss breakfast, but Thomas resolved to let Jimmy sleep another five minutes, for the selfish reason of enjoying the peace of the moment. The window was still open, a light breeze stirring the white net curtains, the room smelt of the ocean and of the dried lavender the landlady had placed liberally atop the furniture, the sleepy village growing louder as Jimmy dozed on in his arms.


	23. A Neat Little Flourish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a pretty decent length Christmas fic then decided I kind of hated it, but I couldn’t let the last Christmas we’ll have Downton slide without writing something, so have this tiny fluffy thing instead <3

**A Neat Little Flourish**

“You aren’t going though, surely.”

“I might pop in.”

“Thomas – “

“Just show me face, y’know.”

Jimmy snorted. “No, you just want to rub it in all their faces that you got away.”

Thomas shuffled back a bit, away from the heat of the fire that they’d stoked a little too high, not bothering to hide how pleased he was with himself. “Well. Maybe a little.”

“I knew it.” 

“Not much gets past you, love.”

“Shut it you,” Jimmy said fondly, stretching out on the rug in front of the fireplace. He felt the cold more than Thomas, something they’d discovered after countless nights sneaking back and forth from each other’s bedrooms at Downton, when they were still toeing the line between friendship and something else. “Or no kissin’ under the mistletoe for you.”

“We don’t have any mistletoe.”

“S’not the point.”

“I’m going Jimmy, and you can’t change my mind.” Thomas took a sip of sloe gin, an early Christmas/leaving present from Daisy that the two of them had almost polished off already. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I got away from the place, but I just want to finish things off properly.” That were Thomas all over; a neat little flourish, a finishing touch, ends tied up and corners smoothed off. Lord knows he’d had enough messy endings. Jimmy was only glad he didn’t turn out to be one of them. 

“Fine,” Jimmy made sure to huff and roll his eyes, put up the token sulk expected of him, before heaving himself over to the other side of the fireplace and pressing firmly to Thomas’ side. “Have it your way, Mr Barrow. Go back to Downton for the sodding servants’ ball, get squiffy with Mrs Hughes and give Mr Bates a hug goodbye, whatever you want.”

“I don’t think it’ll be quite that cosy,” said Thomas airily, setting his empty glass on the floorboards. Jimmy could smell the gin and sweetened berries on his lips. “I can’t persuade you to come?”

“You’re already making me go and see Miss Baxter on Christmas Day.” A fact Jimmy was thoroughly unenthusiastic about, thank you very much. “What more do you want.”

“I thought you liked Phyllis.”

“She was alright I s’pose, until she went and married sodding Molesley of all people.”

“Mm. You’ve got me there.” 

They fell silent after that, sitting together on their living room floor, listening to the shift and crackle of logs burning, the odd pop of sparks and the smell of hot sap. The fact that there was absolutely no chance of somebody blundering in and upsetting their evening together was still novel – no giggling from a maid on the stairs, Mr Carson’s booming voice audible from his office below, or the tread of footsteps outside the door. There was a part of Jimmy that still thought it unwise to let themselves get too complacent, that they’d slip up or get unlucky and be caught holding hands or something equally harmless, and that would be that. Thomas on the other hand was a hopeless romantic and brushed his doubts aside with kisses and quiet words murmured against his neck, or shouting and stomping, if that’s what Jimmy needed. They could both be horribly dramatic sometimes. But it was better than anything else he would have ever dared hope for. 

Jimmy’s elbow clicked as he propped himself closer to Thomas, the latter’s weight shifting comfortably to accommodate his fidgeting. He’d never been one for enjoying Christmas. Even when he was a boy, he’d remained unmoved by prayer or carols or something nice for dinner. There’d been a childish greed when it came to getting presents, but even that was fleeting. But this though… tucked away with the one person who could claim to love him despite and because of his flaws, all the tediousness of celebrating the holidays with acquaintances he couldn’t really be bothered with made bearable by the thought of coming home – to their home – afterwards and doing whatever they pleased. And he knew he’d bloody do whatever Thomas asked of him. He’d gladly walk back into Downton with a smile on his face and raise a glass to their somewhat patchy past, if it meant he got to keep what he had now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice the status of this has changed to 'complete,' I'm not saying I won't write anymore little drabbly things, just that I don't have any more right now :)


	24. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this last year during series six and never posted it, so I'm going to cheat and post it now for Valentines Day instead of writing something new. The notes I had with this say it's meant to be set just after series six episode four, apparently, but I don't think it matters much. Because there’s obviously not enough ‘Jimmy comes back and it’s all OK’ fic. I kind of talked about this before, but only a few sentences, so here it is in all its self-indulgent glory.

**Roses**

 

It was cold outside, but through the lateness of the hour rather than poor summer weather. Thomas couldn’t have said if the day had been sunny or raining, windy or clouded. It had escaped his notice, as Lady Rose and Mr Aldridge were due to arrive and he’d spent all day in the house helping to keep things on track. But it was clear now, moon and stars easily visible, and the night chilly enough that he wished he’d put a coat on over his livery. It didn’t much matter. 

Things… weren’t good. He’d been through more than his share of rough patches, and this one should have felt like nothing in comparison to his past misfortunes, but perhaps it was all the harder to put up with because of its very mundanity. In the past, he’d prided himself on being able to keep his emotions in check, if only in the presence of others – it was part of the job after all. But lately it was becoming more of a struggle. Of course he’d never really been friends with the rest of the staff, nor did he particularly wish to be, but things seemed to have gotten worse again in recent months, and there was only so much open hostility he could face before the cracks would begin to creep across his carefully bland expression. Miss Baxter was still determined to be his friend, which he appreciated, but at the end of the day there was only so much good it could do. He meant what he’d said to her; he did mind what others thought.  
He’d spent almost half his life madly trying to work his way up the employment ladder at Downton, but now he was actively trying to get away, it seemed there was nowhere else that would take him. Though to be honest the interviews he’d endured so far were so awful he was thankful to have escaped in one piece. 

His agitation was such that he couldn’t bear to be standing still and alone out by the back door, echoes of laughter and chat from the kitchens faintly audible, so he made his way across the yard and onto the smooth lawns that lay between the house and the gardens. The grass gave way to a path leading through the formal arrangements of shrubs and flower beds, his solitary footsteps suddenly louder on the gravel. As it always did, the heavy scent of given off by the long row of lavender caught him off guard, but much fresher and more pleasant than the dried stuff they put in with the ladies' clothes. But it eased as he passed the long, low frame of the greenhouse, and picked his way down the gentle slope to a circular flower bed, a stone bird bath in the centre. It was packed with a tangle of frothy pink roses, moonlight bouncing off their waxy leaves, and their delicate scent somehow stronger than it was during the day. He came to a halt under one of the thick, yew arches that surrounded the roses, and lit a cigarette in its shadow. Without the rhythmic crunch of his footsteps on the path, the gardens were silent, the night so still that even the leaves on the trees made no swaying or rustling. In a house so full of bustle and activity, it was rare to find a moment so quiet; he could have been the only man in the world. He may as well have been. 

“They told me you’d be out here.” 

He turned to face the intruder of his solitude, and probably tell them to mind their own. But then they stepped out of the shadow of the archway opposite him, and oh God he must have been dreaming, it was too cruel. Jimmy came closer, feet crunching on the gravel as Thomas’ had, slow and almost wary, hands in his pockets in a show of casualness. 

“Got a spare cigarette?”

Thomas should have said something, or at least complied and given him one, but he found himself quite unable to move. But Jimmy was bold and went ahead anyway, reaching out to take one for himself from the box held limp in Thomas’ hand. It didn’t feel odd really, nor an imposition – Jimmy was always bold in his dreams. He felt the weight of his lighter as Jimmy slipped it back into his pocket, smelt the smoke that drifted from his lips, the musty, sooty smell of the train and the pomade in his hair, thought it was a different one to what he used to use. 

And as real as his rare dreams of Jimmy may have felt, sense of smell had never come into it before. So Thomas was left with no other option than to admit that he really was here. It was the sort of thing he’d let himself think about from time to time, in the empty days just after Jimmy had left, but he’d always known the right thing to say, in his imaginings. No such luck now. 

“Jimmy… how can you be here?”

“I got a train,” he smiled tentatively, “just like anyone else.”

“Don’t try to be funny.” Now really wasn’t the time. “Your last letter was sent from America.” Though that had been months ago now…

His smile faltered and dropped. “Don’t be like that Thomas, I – I work for Lady Rose, as luck would have it. Or for her husband, really.” His tone was light and casual, still wary of Thomas’ reaction. “I went over to the states, as you know, only it weren’t all it were cracked up to be.”

“You said things were going alright,” Thomas said, absurdly hurt Jimmy hadn’t been honest with him about it.

“I know,” said Jimmy, looking up from under the brim of his cap, “and I’ll not apologise for it. I thought you’d probably have enough to be going on with to be worrying about me on top.”

I always worry about you. “Right.”

“It’s too much to bore you with for now,” he said, “but it were mostly just luck. I were working in a fancy club – you know, piano playing and a bit behind the bar. She recognised me and came to say hello, asked if I were enjoying America.”

Thomas snorted. “Of course she did.”

“And I told her the truth,” he shrugged, “that I wasn’t. She said that Atticus – Mr Aldridge, that is – was in need of a valet, and that she still owed me a favour.”

“When you covered up for her about the bloke from the farm,” said Thomas, dimly recalling Jimmy grinning like mad as he recounted the story to him over a game of gin.

“The very same. I suppose I’d even go as far as to call her a friend, now.”

“Well that’s a turn up for the books. Don’t let the Dowager hear you say that.” Thomas dropped his cigarette to the ground and squashed it under his shoe. “Why didn’t you say you were coming? We knew Lady Rose was visiting.” 

“I’ve not been with them long – “ 

“Jimmy – “ he said flatly. 

“I didn’t know if you’d be glad to see me, to be honest,” he flashed him an uncertain smile, “after how I left.”

“Oh. Well I am.” There were probably a lot of other things he could have said, but that seemed the most important. “How could I not be?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come with them at first, when she said they were visiting Downton. I thought I’d left all that behind. But I didn’t have much of a choice, in the end.”

“Oh? Why’s that then?”

“Why do you think?” Jimmy laughed softly, breath as thick as cigarette smoke in the cold air. “You’ll not get rid of me so easily again, Thomas Barrow.”

It wasn’t a big moment, like it always was in the big screen pictures Jimmy liked so much, but a little moment, with the promise of a thousand more. Jimmy came to stand next to him, close enough for their shoulders to press together under the dim green of the yew, the pair of them smiling shyly at the ground like children as Jimmy slipped his hand, warm from his pocket, into Thomas’ cold fingers. They stood in comfortable and happy silence for as long as they could get away with avoiding the madness of the house, savouring the odd but welcome feeling of wholeness that had settled over the both of them, now each had what he was missing.


End file.
